#Foldable Cot

[sivakumarrrr]

Looking for a stylish, space-saving solution? A horizontal wall-mounted bed could be just what you need. Unlike traditional vertical Murphy beds, this design folds out horizontally, making it perfect for rooms with lower ceilings or limited wall space. Ideal for small apartments, guest rooms, or multi-functional spaces, a horizontal wall bed maximizes floor area, creating a streamlined look that blends seamlessly with any decor. Many models also offer built-in shelving or cabinets, giving you extra storage without sacrificing style. With easy fold-down functionality, this bed provides comfort and versatility, transforming your space without compromising on aesthetics or practicality.

[outdoorovernights]

Foldable Camping Cot with Side Pocket Review

Are you on the hunt for the perfect companion for your outdoor adventures? Let’s chat about the “Foldable Camping Cot with Side Pocket, Durable Travel Tent Cot, Max Loading Capacity 264lb, Easy to use for Woman & Man, Comes with Storage Bag(Beige).” This piece of camping gear promises to add some creature comfort to the wild, whether you’re out braving the elements or enjoying a serene weekend…

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (7) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, bucky breaking down, flashbacks, fluff if you squint

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 6k

author's note: hi sweethearts! wow, i actually finished this series! thank you all so, so much for your love and support, gosh, it means the world to me, and if i could thank you guys with a huge hug, i would 💓. this series means a lot to me, i have so many different ways to end it, i think i had 3, and this is one of them 🫶🏻 thank you all so much for staying and for finishing this series with me 💌 love you guys and stay safe out there!

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The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional hiss of the oxygen line. Pale morning light filtered through the half-drawn blinds, slicing the space into uneven golden strips that barely touched the corners.

The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a bouquet someone had left two days ago already beginning to droop in its plastic vase.

The door creaked open without ceremony.

Yelena stepped in, her hair a little messier than usual and two steaming cups of coffee in hand.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days either—the kind of exhaustion that sat behind the eyes, silent and weighty—but she carried it better than most. She always did.

She didn’t say anything at first, just walked in slowly, boots soft against the linoleum, eyes flicking toward the only occupied bed.

Bucky was already awake.

Curled awkwardly in a too-small hospital-issued foldable cot, the sheet tangled around his legs like it had been kicked off in a restless sleep. If you could even call it that.

He sat hunched forward, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed as his fingers toyed with the worn edge of a medical bracelet still looped around his wrist from when he’d refused to leave the ER that night.

He looked up when he heard her—or maybe just sensed her presence—and Yelena caught the full brunt of what the last five days had done to him.

His eyes were bruised with fatigue, red-rimmed and glassy. The stubble across his jaw had darkened into something more permanent. His hair was a mess—not the charming, tousled kind, but the kind born of sleepless nights and fingers dragged through it too many times out of pure frustration.

The navy blue t-shirt clung to his frame like it had been slept in. The sweatpants sagged slightly at the hips. He didn’t look like a soldier, he looked like a man desperately holding himself together by a thread.

“We found him,” Yelena said softly, breaking the silence as she approached. “Raskovic.”

Bucky didn’t react right away. Just blinked up at her, like he had to translate the words in his head before they could settle.

“And?” His voice was low, rough—not from sleep, but from disuse.

She sighed, offering him one of the coffees. “We haven’t gotten much. He’s not talking. Won’t give up the rest of the weapons cache.”

He took the cup without meeting her eyes, fingers curling tightly around the warmth like it was the only thing grounding him. He didn’t drink it, didn’t speak. Just let the silence fall again, heavier this time.

Yelena studied him for a moment—really studied him.

The way he hadn’t moved from that chair for nearly five days.

The way the cot hadn’t even been laid flat most nights.

The way he looked at you every hour, on the hour, as if just by watching hard enough, he could will your eyes to open.

“You should rest,” she said gently, crouching beside him. “Bucky… it’s been five days. You need to—”

“No.” He cut her off, firm but not sharp. Just final. Like the decision had already been carved into stone. “I’m staying. The doctors said… they said she could wake up any moment.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I need to be the first face she sees.”

Yelena swallowed. There wasn’t anything she could say to that.

Not really.

Not when she’d watched him refuse to leave even once, not even to shower. Not when John, Alexei, and even Bob had tried every tactic short of physically dragging him out, and still—still—he hadn’t budged. 

He’d brushed his teeth in the tiny public restroom by the elevators. Bought protein bars and shitty vending machine sandwiches. Sat by your bed, hour after hour, whispering things he didn’t think anyone could hear.

There was nothing she could say. So she just nodded, gently, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

The door clicked shut behind Yelena, leaving the room in its usual hush—the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around your throat and refused to let go. Too still. Too loud. The kind of silence that didn’t soothe, but suffocated. 

Outside, the world was slowly waking—nurses exchanging shifts, machines humming behind closed doors—but in here, time had collapsed into a slow, dragging ache.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, sterile and cold, casting a pale sheen over the metal railings and tile floor. Even they seemed to dim beneath the heaviness in the air. Like the room itself knew how close it had come to losing you.

Bucky turned toward you.

He moved like it hurt. Like his limbs had forgotten how to function under the weight of what they’d carried for the last five days. His gaze dropped to your hand—pale and unmoving, the skin bruised beneath the tape and gauze, fingers limp where they lay curled near your hip. 

The IV line trailed upward to the bag above your head, slow and methodical, like it had all the time in the world.

But he didn’t.

The sheet had been drawn neatly to your waist, the corners folded with practiced care. But Bucky had seen beneath it. He’d memorised the cuts, the dressings, the angry bruises blooming along your ribs.

He’d scrubbed your blood from his hands in the emergency room sink, over and over, until they were raw. Until there was nothing left but the ghost of your voice in his head.

He reached out—slowly, carefully, like one wrong move might shatter you all over again—and wrapped his fingers around yours.

The contrast was stark: his calloused, battered hands, and yours, soft and still. He held on like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the present.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, his voice barely there—cracked and raw, like it had been scraped against too many sleepless nights. “I know you can hear me. Please…”

His eyes squeezed shut as he leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against the back of your hand. The contact was fragile, gentle. His breath hitched against your skin.

“Please wake up,” he whispered.

It wasn’t just a plea.

It was a surrender.

The words hung in the air, splintered and fraying at the edges—the way a man breaks when there’s no one left to see it. When the fight runs out, and all that’s left is the ache.

His lips brushed your knuckles, soft and lingering, like he could pour everything he hadn’t said into that single touch. Like if he kissed you gently enough, it might undo what the world had done to you.

His hand trembled around yours, chest rising in short, unsteady bursts. He’d spent the last five days holding it together—barely—and the cracks were beginning to show.

A single tear slid down his cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw like it had every right to be there.

“Don’t go breaking my heart now, doll,” he whispered.

And it wasn’t just tenderness in his voice. It was fear. Bone-deep, marrow-carving fear.

Because Bucky Barnes had spent the last five days living in a world where nothing he did was enough—where holding your hand, begging, waiting, breaking, hadn’t been enough to undo the sight of you going still in his arms. Of blood on concrete. Of your eyes fluttering closed while he screamed.

He had faced war, torture, brainwashing—hell itself—and nothing had ever scared him like this.

He didn’t know how to live in a world where you didn’t come back.

He didn’t want to.

The memory came like a tide—slow and gentle—washing over Bucky where he sat now, curled at your bedside, hand still laced with yours.

It had been quiet then, too. Not like the sterile hush of a hospital, but something warm. Alive. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones without asking permission, that made everything else—pain, history, guilt—feel far away for just a moment.

The dock creaked beneath his feet as Sam’s boat rocked gently with the tide, tethered but still breathing with the water. The sky had melted into soft amber, streaks of orange and pink dripping into the still, dark ocean like brushstrokes on silk. 

The air was thick with the scent of salt and sugar—someone onshore frying something sweet, maybe beignets or funnel cake—and the breeze tasted like summer. Warm, lazy, golden. 

Somewhere behind him, Sam and Sarah laughed over an engine that refused to start, and AJ’s voice rang out, high and playful, a child’s joy unburdened by the weight of the world.

The sounds of a family.

You sat beside him on the edge of the boat’s stairs, knees pulled up, paper plate balanced in your lap. The hem of your shirt fluttered in the breeze. Your bare feet tapped gently against the wood, relaxed, alive. Like you belonged there.

You nudged the plate toward him without looking.

“Cake,” you said simply.

He took it from you, fingers brushing yours—a soft, accidental touch that lingered longer than it should’ve. He muttered a quiet, almost bashful, “Thanks,” eyes still cast toward the horizon.

But he didn’t eat it. Just sat there, the plate warm in his lap, staring out like the ocean might give him an answer if he looked long enough. The world had gone quiet in his chest for the first time in days, and it scared him more than he let on.

Peace wasn’t something he knew how to hold. Not really.

Then, quietly—almost as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud—“You think I deserve this?”

You turned to him, brows drawing in slightly. “Deserve what?”

His eyes were still on the water, unmoving. But his voice—that voice—was steady. Careful.

“Peace.”

It was such a simple word. But the weight it carried in his mouth was enormous. Like it didn’t belong to him. Like saying it out loud might make it vanish. Like wanting peace made him weak.

You didn’t speak right away.

Just watched him in the dying light—how it hit the high points of his face, turned his lashes gold, softened the lines etched deep into his forehead. How his jaw clenched, how his shoulders never fully relaxed.

There was a quiet awe to him then, even in stillness. Even in pain. Like he didn’t know what to do with a moment that didn’t come with gunfire or consequences.

You smiled, slow and sad. “You do, James.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and it almost hurt, the way your voice curled around his name like it was something worth holding.

“After everything,” you went on gently, “you deserve so much more than what the world gave you.”

His jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly around the paper plate, untouched cake still resting there. Like he needed to hold onto something just to stay grounded.

“But there’s so many people I—” he started, voice strained, barely above a whisper.

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand found his, warm and certain, sliding over his knuckles like an anchor. You didn’t grip too hard. You didn’t need to.

“It wasn’t you,” you said. “You never had a choice. None of it was your fault.”

The wind tugged at your hair. The sky kept burning gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang from a ship docking further down the bay.

But here, on the steps of Sam’s old boat, time had frozen—like the world was giving him permission to stop running. Just for a second.

And for the first time in a very long time, something shifted in him.

Something cracked open. A softness he hadn’t known how to hold. A thought he hadn’t dared entertain—that maybe he could want something. Someone.

That maybe he didn’t have to be alone.

The memory faded, slow and reluctant, like a sunset slipping beneath the water. And when it was gone, Bucky was still there—seated at your bedside in the dim hush of the hospital room, your hand in his, the air too still.

The beeping of the monitor was steady, but too steady. Not fast enough to mean you were waking. Not flat enough to mean you were gone.

That in-between rhythm—it was driving him insane. Mocking him. Reminding him that you were here but not really. Close, but still too far.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise everything all over again. Your lashes against your cheek. The way the corner of your mouth dipped slightly, always slightly, when you slept. The small, near-faded scar on your temple from a mission gone wrong in Marrakesh. Every inch of you mapped onto him like a language only he could read.

And still… nothing.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, thick and tight. He hadn’t spoken in a while—not really. Not since Yelena left, not since the memory of your voice had come back to him, soft and alive and warm in the golden light. 

Now it felt like if he opened his mouth, the entire dam might break.

So when he finally did, it came out hoarse. Barely a whisper.

“Please don’t take her away from me.”

It cracked in the middle, fractured down the middle of his chest like a fault line giving way.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “I don’t care about anything else.”

His eyes stayed on you, like he was afraid you might vanish if he blinked. His fingers tightened faintly around yours.

“Just…” he breathed, voice shaking, “just let her stay. I-I’ll do anything.”

He wasn’t praying. Not really, no, Bucky didn’t believe in that anymore. Hadn’t in decades. Maybe never did. 

But he said it anyway—like if he could just get the words out, the universe might hear him.

Might show him mercy, just this once.

Might understand that you were the only good thing left in him.

That without you, everything else didn’t matter.

That if he lost you, there would be nothing left to come back to.

And so he sat there, forehead pressed to your hand again, tears slipping quietly down his face—no sobbing, no shaking, just the steady, exhausted grief of a man begging the world not to take the one person he didn’t know how to live without.

The first thing you registered was the light—too bright, too sharp, cutting through the darkness behind your eyelids like glass.

You blinked, once, twice, and the world came back slowly. Fuzzy around the edges.

The air felt sterile and cold, too clean. The scent of antiseptic curled at the edge of your senses, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist.

Then came the pain.

A dull, biting throb that pulsed hot through your leg—enough to steal the breath from your lungs. You winced, the movement sending a shock up your thigh. Your body felt heavy, as if the last week had settled into your bones like lead. It took effort to tilt your head, but you did, wincing as your vision swam.

And then you saw him.

Bucky was slumped beside you in a narrow hospital chair, legs sprawled out awkwardly, one arm still draped across the edge of your bed. His fingers were locked around yours—loosely, like he’d fallen asleep holding on and never let go.

His head was bowed, chin resting against his chest, and for a split second you thought he might have finally passed out from exhaustion. His hair was a mess, strands flattened on one side, sticking up on the other.

There were shadows under his eyes so deep they looked like bruises. His jaw was rough with days-old stubble, his shirt wrinkled and clinging to him in tired lines.

He looked wrecked.

But beautiful.

In that devastating, unguarded way he never let you see when he was awake. Like every sharp edge had been sanded down by worry, like grief had made room for something gentler.

Your chest tightened.

And just like that, it all came rushing back—the warehouse, the blood, the sting of your own scream. The panic in his voice when he found you. The way he’d cradled you against his chest, whispering your name like he could pull you back to the earth with nothing but his breath.

You stared at him now, barely breathing.

Because for all the bruises, for all the exhaustion written into every line of his body, he was still here.

Still holding on.

Like he’d never stopped.

You blinked hard against the prick of tears and let your fingers shift, just slightly, in his hand.

A small squeeze. Barely there.

But it was enough.

He stirred beside you, slow and groggy, like the weight of the last five days was still holding him under.

At first, he didn’t move. Just shifted slightly in the chair, the hand around yours twitching like his body already knew something had changed. Then his head lifted, eyes blinking open, blearily searching the room in that half-conscious fog where dreams hadn’t quite let go yet.

And then he saw you.

Really saw you—awake, breathing, eyes on him.

His breath caught in his throat. His entire body froze.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice rough and thin, barely more than air.

For a second, he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The emotion hit too fast—like it had been waiting just behind his ribs for this exact second to shatter him. His lips parted, a breath escaped, and then—

“Sweetheart.”

It came out like a promise. Like a prayer finally answered. He moved forward, hand cradling your face, thumb trembling where it brushed beneath your eye, over your cheek, as if he needed to touch every inch of you to believe this was real.

You could feel him shaking.

Not violently. Just enough to know that this had broken him in ways you hadn’t seen. That he had fallen apart in the quiet, in the waiting. And now that you were back, he didn’t know how to hold all of it.

His thumb traced down your jaw, reverent. Like you were something fragile, something rare.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, voice raw. He didn’t let go of your face.

You swallowed, the ache still sharp in your throat. Everything still hur—your leg, your ribs, your eyes—but somehow, right now, it didn’t matter.

You mustered a small, crooked smile. “Think I’m okay. Didn’t Steve used to say ‘break a leg’ before missions?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, a sound that cracked as much as it warmed. His eyes shone—too glassy, too full—but he let the joke carry him for a second. Let it be a tether.

He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting in something soft, something cracked wide open.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmured, pressing his forehead gently to yours.

And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to finally breathe easy.

His forehead was still resting against yours when the silence stretched again—not heavy this time, but fragile. Like something delicate was settling between you, something you both felt but hadn’t dared speak aloud.

It trembled between your shared breath, suspended in that sliver of space where everything had changed and nothing had yet been said.

Bucky pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand still cupping your cheek like he couldn’t bring himself to let go—like if he did, you might disappear again, slip through his fingers like smoke.

“I was scared,” he said quietly, his voice low and stripped raw. “That I’d lose you.”

The confession wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it cracked something open between you, split wide and aching. His voice held no armor. No deflection. Just truth—and the unbearable weight of it.

You opened your mouth, not to argue, not really. But he shook his head once, gently, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me finish.”

His chest rose, then fell—one deep breath, then another, like he was trying to steady himself before the dam broke. Like every word cost him something he’d never learned how to give.

“I know I’m not easy,” he began. “I’m rigid. Controlling. I hold onto things too tight, like if I let go, everything might fall apart. I ruin things before I ever deserve them. Before I even let myself hope.”

He blinked down at you, and his expression was ruined—not because he was falling apart, but because he was letting you see it.

Every crack. Every fear. Every piece of him that had been stitched together over years of surviving, now trembling in the quiet between you. 

He wasn’t hiding behind protocol or mission strategy or the weight of being Bucky Barnes. Not here. Not now.

“But you…”

His voice caught, just for a moment. He swallowed hard and tried again, slower, like the words had to be dug up from somewhere deep.

“You changed everything. And I didn’t see it at first. Or maybe I didn’t want to. But somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending. I stopped keeping you at arm’s length. And now—” his thumb brushed your cheek again, barely there, “now I can’t imagine anything without you in it.”

He paused, breath uneven, like he was standing in front of a door he didn’t know how to open—afraid of what might be waiting on the other side.

His jaw tensed, like he was bracing himself for impact.

“I can’t lose you. If I do… I’ll have nothing left.”

And he meant it. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t a line. It was a quiet, soul-deep truth. One that had been building inside him long before the blood and the gunfire and the scream that had torn from his throat when he thought he’d already lost you.

He exhaled slowly, like he had to push the words past the fear.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, softer this time. “And I love you. I don’t expect you to feel the same. I just—if there’s still a part of you that wants this… if you’ll still have me…”

His voice broke, just barely, a hitch so small most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did.

“I’m yours.”

He looked at you then, like he was standing on the edge of something sharp and bottomless. Like your silence might be the thing that finally shattered him. Like he would take whatever answer you gave—even if it gutted him—because loving you had never been about control.

Because this wasn’t a man trained to ask for things.

And still—he asked for you.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right—like the words had landed too softly to be real, like they’d slipped through his defenses before he could catch them. 

The weight of everything he’d just laid bare sat heavy in the space between you, and it was clear from the flicker in his eyes that it had taken everything he had to give it to you. Now, he didn’t know how to breathe, didn’t know how to hope.

Then, softly, almost like it hurt: “Say something. Please.”

His voice was barely above a whisper—fragile and trembling, held together by nothing but hope and fear and the quiet kind of love that never asked for anything, but still wanted everything. 

There was no demand in it. Just raw need. The sound of a man standing at the edge, waiting to see if he’d be pulled back or left to fall.

Your heart ached with the honesty of it. With the way he sat there, waiting—not as a soldier, not as a weapon, not as someone who’d been trained to endure the worst the world could throw at him.

But as a man. Just a man. One who had finally admitted what he wanted, and was terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. That he wouldn’t be enough.

You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, and he went still beneath your touch—completely still, like something inside him was holding its breath.

Your thumb swiped gently at the tear trailing down his cheek—a small, quiet thank-you for every part of him he had given you without expecting anything in return. For the courage it took to let himself be seen.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

His eyes shut like the words had cracked something wide open—like they’d found every broken part inside him and flooded it with light. His shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with release, like the tension he’d been carrying since the moment he found you on that warehouse floor had finally let go.

And when he moved, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t frantic. It was careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.

He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours, and his breath ghosted across your lips—warm, uneven, shaky.

His hands came up to frame your face, fingertips brushing just beneath your ears, thumbs trembling faintly against your skin. And there was something in his expression that looked a lot like awe—like he couldn’t believe he got to have this. Got to have you.

You felt your gaze drift down—just slightly—and caught the glint of silver on his hand.

The thin band still wrapped around the fourth finger of his right hand.

The one from the mission.

“You’re still wearing it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—like it startled him, that he still had laughter in him at all. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever take it off.”

There was something unshakable in the way he said it—not possessive, not forced. Just steady. Like this had never been a tactic or a disguise to him. Like it had always been more. Like somewhere along the way, without even meaning to, he’d decided that the ring was already real.

Then, carefully, he reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, slow, almost tentative, like even now he was afraid the moment might vanish if he moved too fast. You watched as he pulled out the second ring, slim and silver and achingly familiar. The one he’d never gotten to put on you.

Until now.

He looked up at you again, and this time his smile was smaller. Shyer. A little nervous in the way only he could be, all confidence stripped away, leaving behind something earnest and boyish and real.

“You never let me put it on, remember?”

You met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, you didn’t speak. Just looked at him, this man who had nearly shattered in front of you, who had stayed by your side through blood and silence and pain, who had chosen you even when it wasn’t easy.

And without a word, you extended your hand, left palm facing him, fingers slightly curled, offering it to him like it meant something.

Because it did.

“Now’s your chance,” you murmured.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to make it grand. He just took your hand like it was made of glass, something precious, something that had almost been taken from him, and slid the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that made your chest ache. 

His touch was steady now, but his eyes… his eyes told the truth. They shimmered with a kind of wonder, like he couldn’t believe he got to do this. That you were letting him.

When the band settled into place, his lips found the center of your palm, pressing there softly, not rushed, just sure.

Like a vow made without words.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending.

It felt like home.

One week later, the compound felt like a strange mix of familiar and surreal. The sterile hallways and reinforced doors hadn’t changed, but everything else had. Or maybe it was just you.

You were home. Bruised, still limping, a dull ache riding your spine every time you moved too fast, but alive. Healing. Whole enough to smile when someone cracked a joke. Stable enough to tease John back. Present enough to notice the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through the glass atrium instead of the pain it lit up in your leg.

The team had been insufferable, in the way that only people who loved you could be.

Bob made soup. Every day. Different flavours, each one weirder than the last, like he was trying to test the boundaries of what counted as comfort food. 

The last one had contained turmeric, coconut milk, and what he swore up and down were healing enzymes. You hadn't asked. You just nodded, thanked him, the smile on his face grew brighter. 

Alexei had taken it upon himself to be your personal chauffeur. The man had nearly gotten into a shouting match with a medbot over who was allowed to push your wheelchair. He’d won. Somehow. 

And ever since, he wheeled you around like a race car driver, dramatic turns, Russian commentary, occasional sound effects, and all. “Turn three, is hairpin! Hold on!” he’d shout gleefully.

John yelled at the medbots on your behalf. Loudly. Colourfully. "Come on!" he'd barked after the fifth proximity alert went off near your bed, like the bots had something personal against you. 

The medbot responded with a passive-aggressive buzz. John flipped it off. The medbot flipped the switch back, in its own, uncanny little way. You were pretty sure it had been programmed just for him.

And Bucky?

He stayed close, but not hovering. A hand always offered before you asked. A look always checking, just in case.

He’d been quieter these days, not distant, just steady. Like now that he’d said it, now that you’d both said it, he didn’t have to force anything. 

He could just… be. With you. No more waiting, no more pretending. Just the quiet certainty of someone who had chosen you every day, even when you couldn’t see it.

You were curled up on the couch in the common room, a blanket across your lap and a hot pack on your hip when Yelena dropped down beside you. She handed you a cup of orange juice—cold, freshly poured.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat close, shoulder brushing yours.

Then she nudged you gently, her gaze tilted your way, curious. A little soft at the edges, like maybe she'd been waiting for the right moment to ask.

“How’s you and Bucky?”

You looked down instinctively, your fingers brushing the ring now resting on your left hand. 

“I never thought I could find happiness,” you said after a moment, voice quieter than you intended. “Not really. Not like this. But with him… it feels real.”

Yelena’s eyes softened. She reached over and squeezed your hand.

“You deserve it,” she said simply. “You both do.”

You let your head rest against her shoulder, the blanket shifting slightly as you moved. Your chest felt warm, not from the heating pad, but from the way she said it. 

After a beat, Yelena added, deadpan, “Val says she’ll pay for your honeymoon.”

You wrinkled your nose. “No thank you.”

She smirked. “You don’t want a government-sponsored vacation? With gps tracking and an optional mission brief?”

“I’d rather eat more of Bob’s soup.”

Behind you, from the kitchen, Bob yelled, “Hey!” You didn’t even turn around.

Laughter spilled into the room, light and easy, stretching out across the space like sunlight through glass.

And for the first time in a long, long time, you let yourself sink into it.

A few weeks had passed, and life had begun to stitch itself into something that resembled normal. Not the kind of normal you'd known before, not pre-mission, but something quieter. Softer. A version of normal that fit into slow mornings and shared looks across rooms. 

It was healing, in its own strange way. A patchwork of bruises and blooming, of awkward firsts and familiar silences.

You still limped some days. Bucky still flinched at sudden noises.

But there was laughter now. There was warmth.

So when Bucky told you to meet him at the compound garage at 7 p.m, and added, almost shyly, “Dress nice” —you didn’t question it. Not out loud, anyway. 

You just raised an eyebrow, and he gave you that look. The one that meant, Trust me.

You tried to pry it out of John first. Predictable. Blunt-force obvious. And somehow, somehow, the man managed to keep his mouth shut. Not even a hint.

“He made me swear,” he said with smugness. “I’m not breaking that.”

You stared at him. “Seriously? As if that ever stopped you.” You quipped, jokingly.

John just grinned. “You think I want to be the reason he throws me through a wall?”

Alexei was no better. He distracted you for a good hour with a wild, mostly unverifiable story about his glory days involving a Russian circus, a helicopter, and what may have been a tiger. 

You weren’t sure if the entire thing was real or if he’d just been buying time, but he kept looking at the clock like it owed him something.

“Do not worry,” he said, patting your shoulder. “Is worth it.”

And then it was seven.

You made your way down the corridor, heels tapping softly against the concrete, nerves low in your belly even though you didn’t have a reason to be nervous. 

The garage doors were half-open. The light inside was warm, glowing.

You stepped through.

And your breath caught.

There he was.

Bucky stood just a few feet away, dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was neatly pushed back, the kind of effort he only made back when he was a congressman and that, that had been after you told him he can’t walk into the capitol with his hair in a mess. 

You both argued over that, sort of, but when you saw him on your television, hair slicked back, you had smiled. 

In his hand was a bouquet, mismatched wildflowers, soft pinks and whites and sprigs of green,like he hadn’t just picked the nicest flowers and wrapped them himself, but the ones that looked most like you.

And behind him, tucked into the far corner of the garage, was a small table for two. White tablecloth. Candles flickering inside glass jars. A few strands of string lights hung above it, casting the scene in a golden, dreamlike glow. 

A single speaker sat nearby, humming something low and instrumental, a soft jazz tune you vaguely recognized, the kind that filled a room without asking too much of it.

“What’s all this?” you asked, your voice catching slightly on the edges. You felt breathless. Not from shock, but from the tenderness of it all.

He gave a shrug, casual, but not careless. There was a nervous twitch to it, like he wasn’t quite sure how you were going to react. Like part of him still expected this to be too much. Or not enough.

“I figured…” He glanced away, then back at you. “I never got to take you on a real date. I wanted to do it right this time.”

You stared at him for a second longer, because it hit you all at once—the candles, the table, the flowers, him.

Every moment that had led to this one. Every choice, every ache, every time he could have walked away and didn’t. 

The man who'd stormed into a warehouse for you, who had stayed awake five nights just to be the first thing you saw—he was here. In jeans. With wildflowers. 

You stepped forward, eyes still on his, and took the flowers from his hand. Your fingers brushed his, and he didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in, just slightly, like he was anchoring himself in the contact.

“You didn’t have to,” you said, a grin tugging at your mouth despite the lump rising in your throat.

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched warm between two people who no longer needed to rush. Who had already survived the worst and come out of it not just intact, but better. 

Then his head tilted, the corner of his mouth tugging up into that familiar, crooked smirk that always made your heart skip a beat.

“So… Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice low, teasing, soft. “You free tonight?”

Your smile bloomed, wide and stupid and completely uncontained—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, your lungs, your bones. The kind that had once felt impossible and now came easy, like breathing.

“For you, Always.”

a/n: oh my gosh, we are at the end!!! ❤️ i am so grateful for each and everyone of you for taking the time to read this series, for your support, kind words that really motivated me to keep this series going 💌.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27 @lokisgirlie @furiousprincesskingdom @keira-kaz2y5 @amatiswayland @emilyswortwellen @samanthaw16 @bobscucumber @rrosiitas @alicetesser @morphoportis @polkadot-567 @w-h0re @c3iiaaaaa @mouseratface@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes@that-daughter-of-hephaestus

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 4

Part 1 here. AO3

John lets the men simmer for two days. Mostly he lets their trip to his seamstress ride to see if they brought it up to him. They didn’t. Guess he would be playing this the sly way.

“Found an old quilt from my grandmother when cleaning out my mum’s house last leave.”

Johnny’s brain sparked on the word association just as John hoped it would.

“Found out I can get my family kilts fixed up and preserved. Met a pretty lass who runs a shop that said it was a possibility.”

“Oh?” John folded his arms across his chest, encouraging Johnny to go on by tilting his head in interest.

“Yeah, pretty bird, kicked us out when we started asking about-”

He cut himself off pretty quick but John gave him a small scary smile.

“Asking about who, Johnny?”

Johnny started to back up, hands raised as he babbled his excuses.

“Finish your excuses and go get the guys.”

Johnny turned tail and fled from the room. His muppets filed in the room, Johnny getting forced by the neck by Simon who glared down at him. Must have wanted to keep this a secret. Should have known better than to tell Johnny. The man couldn’t keep a non-life-threatening secret to save anyone’s life. Kyle and Gary slid in after the duo.

“Muppets. You will leave my seamstress well enough alone or I will make it a problem for you.”

“So she is yours?” Gary piped up from the side.

Shooting him a glare John continued.

“I am grown enough to not explain myself to the lot of you, but if I get a call again about any of you bothering her I will make it everyone’s problem.”

Kyle smirked and spoke out one side of his mouth.

“Seems like Price can’t get a date.”

“Kyle I swear to my god and yours I will make you disappear if you keep it up. If your clothes go missing, just know they will be back. Now get out of here the lot of you.”

His men shared smiles and eye contact.

They hustled from the room when he picked up his blackened coffee mug to throw at one of them.

“Fucking muppets going to send me to an early grave. I don’t even have her phone number yet,” he mumbled to himself as the back of them disappeared.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

You think about John far more often than you should. He is a customer. Yes, he sleeps in your chairs and smiles at you in a way that pulls his cheeks to the moon, and yes he makes your heart flutter the tiniest bit but, but he is a customer who has never shown interest and you refuse to make someone feel uncomfortable in your shop. Your shop was a safe space, for everyone. Your flags are on clear display, so many, many flags, made sure of it.

He stepped through your thoughts carelessly. When you were wandering a superstore you somehow ended up in the camping section. A clearance foldable cot caught your eye and left the store with you. You maneuvered it into your tiny car and into the shop without allowing yourself to question why you had bought it.

John appeared two mornings following your purchase. You smile, wider than you should, at him.

“Hi John, welcome back! Got anything new and interesting for me today?”

Did you sound too chipper?

“Nothing crazy, one of my men needs a mask fixed.”

“Do you always bring in their items? I hope they are paying you at least,” you joke as you take the offered mask.

Spreading it on the counter you look it over, a tear over one ear and one from the eye portion. Both are decently easy fixes but would require your ring light and some time with a hand needle.

Looking up you offer John another smile. Fuck, can you keep the smiles to a minimum? He is going to think you are weird and then stop coming by.

“This shouldn’t take terribly long, I would say maybe an hour?”

John knocked one knuckle against the counter as he nodded. With both hands on the armrests, you remembered the cot in the back.

“Oh, John!”

He paused, ass halfway lowered into the seat.

“I..uh..” you stammer to a stop, unsure of how your words might be received.

“Yes?” He lifts a single brow at you, body not shaking as he waits.

Tucking one arm to your chest and the other to your mouth you speak from behind it.

“I found a cot. I brought it to the shop for you to use if you wanted?”

The words rush out of you, mumbled by your hand, and the speed by which you hurl them.

John stands, moving to stand next to the counter where the floor changes, noting the difference in customer space vs working space.

“What was that dove?”

Tightening your lips before biting the inside of your cheek you force yourself to say your words again. Slower, clearer you speak.

“I have a cot for you. In the back, so that you can sleep.”

His face goes blank as he blinks at you.

He looked a bit like a 404 code in the flesh.

A small smile breaks across his face as color spreads up his cheeks.

“For me?”

“Well,” you tighten both arms around your middle as you reply. “No one else seems to pay me for the privilege of sleeping in my shop, so yes?”

John rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

You awkwardly stare at him. What do you even say now? Do you invite him to lie down? No that sounded weird.

“Do you-”

“Why don-”

You both started and stopped at hearing the other’s voice.

Spinning on your heel you turned towards the storage room, confident John would follow. Popping the door open you can do nothing more than point to the cot, still covered in tape from the store.

John slides by you, chest brushing your arm and shoulder as he does. If you have to fight back the urge to take a bite? Well, he would never need to know.

“I can set it up for you if you don’t mind?” John looks back over his shoulder at you.

Knowing you are beet red you can only nod.

“I bought it for you but didn’t get a chance to,” you gesture at it as if your vague motion will explain all your thoughts.

John’s smile, eyes crinkling and shoulders softening, melted your heart.

“I’ll take care of it and then take a good nap. My men have started to comment that I am nicer to them after I get a nap here.” He knelt, pulling out a pocket knife and slicing open the package.

“Your men?” You lean against the door frame, unabashedly watching. “What is it you do for work John?”

“Special forces, I’m a captain. I lead a group of myself and four other men.”

“Well, that would explain a lot of the smells.”

He looks up at you, brow cocked.

“Smells?”

“Like fire, gunpowder, sweat, sometimes fear.”

“You get a lot of smell knowledge here?”

“I get a lot of everything here,” you shrug, unable to articulate how no matter how clean a piece of cloth some lingering smells clung.

John turns back to his task. You spend far, far too long watching him. The way his shoulders dip and arms change shape as he uses them. When the cot is built and John stands he turns and catches sight of you, you give a panicked smile and flee for the counter where you had left the mask.

Slamming your body into your chair you turned on your ring light, pulled your black thread, and focused diligently on fixing the holes you had been asked to address. John did not reappear for nearly an hour. You had finished the mask sooner than that but had not yet found the fortitude to go and wake him.

The creases on his face matched the lines on the shoulder of his shirt, and the slight drool stain.

“Right on time?”

You smile and nod.

“Well let’s settle up and I will find a reason to be back in a few days.” John returns to the customer side of the counter, sure of himself and you.

“You don’t have to pay me to come nap if that is all you need,” you start.

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“My men are hard on clothes. If I can get you some business I feel less bad about using you for some shut-eye.”

Supposing you had to accept that answer you unlock your tablet and complete the transaction.

Once his card clears you pass over the mask.

“You’re jewelry box should be done by Christmas.”

He drops the statement as if he forgot to bring it up until now.

“Christmas should be fine, I don’t have many plans though I will be out of town the week of Christmas proper. I will be visiting my grandmother.” Paternal grandmother since your mother was not allowed to visit, but no need to mention that.

“We will have to find some time to ensure I can get you the gift then,” he smiled as he said it.

“I told you I would pay for it John,” you chide.

With a shrug, he tucked the mask into his pocket and stepped back from the counter.

“Can’t pay me for a Christmas present dove.”

With that, he waved and pushed through the front door.

“The hell I can’t,” you spoke to the empty shop.

Part 3 | Part 5

Masterlist

[hellenhighwater]

Hey Hellen, I've been enchanted by the folding cot you've hacked together and I was curious what the dimensions of it are both when collapsed and folded out?

I'm considering building my wife and I a pair for when we go car camping and Im trying to figure out how large/how foldable I wanna make em!

Unfolded, it fits a standard twin mattress, so it's 74"x 38" plus maybe 4 inches of width from the head and footboard. Folded in half, it's about 38x39 square, and about 10 in thick. It could be more compact than that! It wasn't my highest priority to make it smaller.

[pomefioredove]

I am loving your event! Can I have a sugar cookie, #9, with chocolate chips, candy cane, and chestnuts?

I'll see what I can do!

order #9, sugar with chestnuts, candy cane, chocolate chips

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ I think I'll stay

summary: an injury takes you out of a couple's competition tropes: sick fic, fake dating (barely), friends to lovers characters: jack additional info: romantic, gender neutral reader, reader is yuu

Why is it always you?

Well, you're the main character, so all of the miserable things have to happen to you!

Ha, ha. If only life were that easy.

The truth of the matter is that you're just unfortunate, miserably so, more than anyone else.

You could've stayed home this weekend- eating chocolate in your underthings and misusing the phone that's supposed to be for emergencies to read fanfiction for the manga Ortho got you hooked on- but, you're here.

Stupidly. Badly.

And beat up, now, too.

"It's a nasty twist, but you'll live," Jack says. "A little ankle trouble never hurt anyone- uh, badly."

Your nails dig into the depressed mattress of the medical tent, and you have to force down a nagging that's fighting its way up. How wrong can one boy be?

But, then, there's Ace to steal that title, because of course. "You'll be ready in like, thirty minutes, right?"

"Ace-" Epel tries to warn him, but it's worthless.

"Because it is a partnered competition, and the more teams us first-years have in the mix, the more a chance we have of winning the prize!"

You throw the first thing you feel- which happens to be a first-aid kit on the foldable table by your cot. It catches Ace in the stomach, and he squeals like a little girl.

"OW! What's your problem?!"

"You couldn't pay me to go up there right now!"

"Ace, come on, they're hurt," Deuce says, the diplomat he is. "We can swing this with only two teams. Better than none, right?"

The first-year grumbles and gripes about your "unpredictable temper", his feet shuffling against the grass as the others take him out.

Jack stays. He says nothing, but he stays.

Not like he could do anything, anyway- you were his "partner", after all.

"...Feeling alright?" he tries. He looks like he has more to say, but doesn't. Only nonsensical, meaningless questions like "feeling alright?"

He clears his throat. He pulls at his tie. His tail twitches. His ears flick around the tent, as if keeping watch for predators.

You think he wants to apologize- for, you know, falling on you and fucking up your ankle. Your good ankle, not your overblot-shot ankle (and shoulder, and knee, and a few fingers, but, hey, who's counting?)

Somehow, this is worse than all of that.

"Say it," you sigh, waving him on to give you his woes.

Jack swallows, scratches his chin, and then:

"You really should elevate your ankle. And you need ice. The bandages won't do anything- Ace and Deuce don't know the first thing about first-aid-"

"REALLY?!"

Jack jumps at your yelp, tucking his tail between his legs. "What?"

"That's all you have to say?"

He looks a little uneasy, his ears flattened with guilt, his eyes following the line of your leg and not meeting yours.

"...I'll get the ice," he insists, tending to your injury with a soft touch, as if terrified he'll hurt you further... which is somewhat satisfying for you.

He props your ankle under a pile of pillows, and reluctantly manifests some magic to make ice (the nearest dispenser is probably back at your dorm- your beautiful, safe dorm- you've never missed Ramshackle so much).

Some, not all, of the tension in your spine alleviates at the tender care. Jack was right about the ice and the elevation, at least.

"The swelling's starting to go down," he says. "Just stay off it for the rest of the week and it'll be good as new."

"What about classes?"

"Eh..." he scratches the back of his neck. "I'll bring you to them."

"You'll carry me? Every day?"

"If that'll help. I'll just substitute you for my weight training,"

He's awfully hard to stay mad at. Your cross your arms over your chest and lie in bed, your ankle numb but comfortable from the cold.

"...Fine," you say. "But I don't forgive you. I fell in front of all those people."

He looks away, though you could see the wince and the whimper he's desperately holding himself from.

"I know. I'll make it up to you,"

...Which you suppose is his way of saying "I'm sorry". You'll work on that.

You sigh. "No need, you've said enough. Just... go on and enjoy watching the competition,"

Jack stares, eyes softening more than he'd ever allow them to under any other circumstance. He smiles, too.

"And miss out on your commentary? I think I'll stay,"

[teacupcollector]

The Art of Misdirection - Part 3 (141 x Gen Z Reader)

Main Masterlist Modern Warfare II Masterlist A/N: Hello everyone I know it has been a while and I haven't updated is so many years, I think i am back, but I don't know where to go with this story anymore. I wanted to post because I had this in my drafts. I appreciate all the support. i am going to be doing a bit of a blog update because it has been the same for a while. Feel free to request anything COD related. it doesn't have to be from my promt list. I am trying to ease my way into writing again. Have a good day! Summary: Joining the 141 was a wild roller-coaster. Everyone had been apprehensive to you joining due to your age, but you are here to prove them wrong. Now as of this mission and maybe your last they are going to figure out what your nickname means.  

"What the fuck were you thinking!" Soap exclaimed as he stormed toward Ghost.

"Johnny we need to be quiet an..." "Fuck being quiet! What happened to us being a team!" He says as he gets face-to-face with him.

He can feels the slight warm breaths of Ghost through his balaclava. He can feel the intense stare as he looks up at him. He is sure Ghost could feel the anger rolling off of him. He hopes that Ghost feels the slightest bit intimidated but he knows that isn't the case.

"We are a te-" Soap makes sure to lean up as far as he can. Trying his best to puff out his chest and make himself bigger.

"No apparently we're not because we just left her behind! What happened to the Ghost that would stick his neck out for his squad member!" Soap exclaims as his anger seems to rise.

"He is still there Mactavish! I needed to get you both out of there. You were injured and I had no idea what Gaz's condition was! I had to assume she was dead in an effort to save the rest of you!" Ghost says as his voice begins to rise in turn.

"You hated her the moment she stepped foot on base... You didn't bother to confirm if she was alive! She is one of us!" Soap says shoving Ghost which causes Ghost to Step back a step.

"Was this some opportunity to get her off your back?! You were probably glad she was dead!" "You need to hush it John-" Ghost bellows only to be cut off by Soap once again.

"Just because she is younger than us doesn't mean she isn't capable! Was she just going to be another name in your already red ledger? Do you only see her as collateral damage?!"

Ghost stays silent. Not because Soap is right, but because he is unable to come up with an answer. Technically yes she was. He didn't want it to be that way, but she dug her grave and now she had to lie in it, and that is exactly what he said.

"She dug the grave for herself and she had to lie in it! It was sacrifice the few to save the lives of the many! You need to understand that I made a logical choice! You need to separate your emotions from situations like this or it will get you killed!" Ghost sees Soap change stance.

He knew that Soap was going to punch him in the face the moment he stepped outside the tent. He knew he deserved it, but just because he deserved it doesn't mean he was going to let it happen. Before any action could take place Gaz steps out of the tent.

"What the fuck are you both doing out here!" Both Ghost and Soap turn to Gaz.

"It doesn't fucking matter. Medical evac is seven klicks out. We need to get a move on before you alert anyone else of our position..." He grumbles as he walks back inside the tent.

Soap grunts before going around the fire and packing up things that are needed. Ghost walks toward the tent and begins to pack up everything that is inside. Gaz is walking out with the radio and some medical supplies.

Ghost looks over to you laying nearly lifelessly on the cot. If it weren't for the rise and fall of your chest he would have been convinced. He begins taking things off the foldable tables and folding them up before exiting the tent. He does this for the second table as well. When he comes in a third time he sees Soap sitting on the ground and running his fingers through your hair.

"We're going to move you alright Lass? We need to finish packing up and then we will get you out of here." He says softly.

Soaps hand goes from your hair to your cheek as the back of his hand caresses the side of your face. He then turns his hand so his thumb can wipe away the wet residue of your tears and blood. Soap then turns his head to Ghost and glares. He stands up and goes to pick you up when Ghost stops him.

"You aren't fit to pick her up Sargent. Go wait in the jeep." Ghost says.

Soap looked like he was about to argue but he knew Ghost was right. It would only injure his leg more and he would jostle her around to much in an effort to avoid causing further injury to it. Soap walked out and Ghost sighed.

"Gotta stay with us Corporal. I need you to be alive so I can rip you a new one for being so fucking stupid." He grunts as he bends down and collects you in his arms.

He walks out of the tent to the last standing vehicle and opens up the back seat. He lays you down in it and you groan at the change of body placement. Soap then hops in the back seat as well using his right thigh as a pillow to support your head. Ghost looks between the both of you as he sees Soap run his hands through your hair.

"You'll be alright m'eudail (My dear)... We will get you better." Soap looks up at Ghost and sighs.

Ghost takes that as a sign and gently shuts the door and sighs. Ghost swiftly goes over the layout of the camp to see if there is anything else needed to be packed, but Gaz seemed to have already packed everything and put out the fire. Ghost goes to the passenger side and gets in which is soon followed by Gaz in the drivers seat.

"Drive easy Gaz... Please." Ghost hears from behind him.

Gaz nods into the rear view before he stops driving. "Keep the lights off until we are a Klick out or so got that Gaz?"

Gaz nods but stays silent as he goes a snail pace. Once they are out a bit the head lights go up and he begins to drive a bit faster. Soap has been whispering soothing words to you this entire time. Every whimper you make when there is a particular harsh bump he is there to comfort you. Ghost can only listen as he keeps his eyes out on the horizon. He feels his heart pinch in his chest. He allowed you to get hurt. He left you behind. He needs to make sure you are okay, but he knows that Soap can handle it. He needs to get out of his head and focus on the task at hand and keep an eye out for potential threats as well as the helicopter that will be evacuating them. Ghost doesn't want to be harsh, but he is going to talk to Price about your behavior. You were down right suicidal today and he will not have that threaten his squad.

"Why do you call her Misdi?" Ghost asks in a low tone.

"It's uh... it's short for Misdirection. When she was in Iraq under American command she was the best at distracting the enemy from the main task at hand..." Gaz says in an equally low tone.

"However she had her own squad for that." Ghosts eyes widen.

"She is only a Corporal how is that possible?" Ghost says keeping his tone level.

"Well she was on the promotion board, but that was cut short for some reason and she was nominated to be on this task force." Gaz murmurs.

"Must've gotten in some trouble with the bullshit she pulled today. I wouldn't be surprised..." Ghost growls.

That is when there is a whimper from the back seat which was louder then the others. Your eyes are filled with tears as you adjust to what they assume is consciousness.

"I'm here lass, they bein' to loud huh?" "Bear..." you mumble. "Hurts..."

"I know lass... I'm here you can squeeze my hand as hard as you want." Soap says as he slips his hand in yours and you squeeze.

"Scared Bear..." you whimper.

"I know, but we are here and we are heading home." Soap says using his other hand to run through your hair and gasps slightly.

"What is it Soap?" Gaz asks.

"Her head started bleeding again. 'Ts bleedin' through the bandage..." Soaps voice cracks.

"She'll be fine, keep pressure on it." Ghost says as he taps on Gazs shoulder to get him to speed up. Gaz nods before speeding up.

"I got to put pressure on yer head alright?" Soap says as he presses down on your wound.

You let out a cry and he tries his best to comfort you. "I know, I know. You got this alright?" Soap says as he continues to murmur to you. ---

You weren't unconscious that entire time. You were up ever since he put you in the car. You hate that Ghost thought so little of you. You couldn't help but let out a small whimper. You just hope they assume it was out of pain. Then again it is pain. Pain of the heart because they have no idea what you went through. Only Laswell and Price know and you want to keep it that way. You wish you could have said a snarky comment, but your eyes fell closed. Only to open at the rendezvous point. You were lifted onto a stretcher and into the helicopter. You look up to see Soap, Gaz, and Ghost in the seats and strapped down and that is when you realize your head is strapped to the stretcher and unable to move.

Your chest begins to heave up and down as your eyes strain to look either side of you.

"Let me out... Let me out!" You cry out and the three snap their head down to you.

You begin to thrash and strain in an effort to get out. Your vision starts to blur with tears as you feel the other restraints binding you. You suddenly see a head pop into your vision.

"Get away from me!" You shout.

"Ma'am if you don't calm down we are going to have to sedate you." The person above you says, but this only causes you to panic further.

"Love we're here." You hear Gaz say and suddenly you feel a hand enter your own and you immediately dig your nails into him.

"It's just me love. It's big G. Remember when you gave me that nickname? It's really stupid innit?" Gaz says with a laugh.

You go to nod but the restraint on your head is limiting the movement. You feel the moment of hyperventilation beginning to take over once again, but Gaz squeezes your hand, grounding you. "Try and sleep, okay? We'll be out of here in no time." He says. You take in a deep breath before closing your eyes and letting the darkness encompass you.

[zoeykallus]

In His Crosshairs

Chapter 1 Masterlist

Warnings: None, Yet. Still burning slow. (Maybe Minor Injuries)

Chapter 2. A Signal In Silence

You told yourself you were only following him because the temperature had dropped below freezing. That the ship's systems were shot and you didn't want to lose fingers to frostbite. That it wasn’t the way his voice had dropped when he said “still deciding.”

The wind howled as you made your way through the snow-coated ruins, your boots crunching across stone and ash. The old comm tower stood like a broken tooth in the landscape, jagged and half-collapsed, metal twisted from some long-forgotten explosion.

Inside, it was marginally warmer. Dust, rust, and the scent of old wiring. Crosshair had already started a small power unit, barely enough to run a heater and lights. His rifle was propped against the wall within reach. He sat in the corner on a crate, one leg stretched out, cleaning a part of his weapon with practiced ease.

He didn’t look up when you entered.

“I didn’t bring you here,” he said flatly.

“I know.” You dropped your bag, almost angrily. Angry with yourself, because you had followed him up here like a damn puppy, “I brought myself.”

For a while, there was only the sound of wind scraping metal and the faint click-snap-click of him reassembling something.

Then you saw it. The cot. A single, narrow field bed. Foldable. Standard-issue. Blankets, barely. Pillows, none. You turned toward the far corner, no couch, no bench, not even a supply box big enough to stretch out on.

You let out a soft laugh. “Of course.”

That finally got his attention.

He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly. “Problem?”

You gestured toward the cot. “There’s only one bed.”

He didn’t blink. “I noticed.”

“Right. Because of course the war-torn frozen tower has five-star accommodations.”

He said nothing. Just leaned back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest. His long frame looked almost too big for the cramped space. The crosshair tattoo caught the light, faint and dark, like it was watching you independently of him.

You rubbed the back of your neck. “Look… I’m not gonna sleep on the damn floor.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to.”

You squinted. “What, we’re sharing?”

Another beat of silence.

“You stay on your side,” he said simply. “Don’t snore. Don’t touch me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s assuming you’re not the one who snores.”

His lips twitched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Just lie down,” he muttered, standing and moving to a corner to dim the lights.

You slid onto the cot with minimal ceremony, turning your back to him, but acutely aware of every inch of space between your bodies. Which wasn’t much. The cot was too narrow. Your shoulders grazed. His breath warmed the side of your neck for a second before he angled away.

The silence stretched.

Your thoughts raced. What were you doing here? Why hadn’t you run the second he left the hangar? Why did it bother you more that he hadn’t stopped you… than the fact that he might still hand you over?

___________________

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour.

You were just starting to drift off when you heard it: a soft, quiet exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like… something slipping.

You turned slightly, slowly. Just enough to look.

He was facing the ceiling, eyes half-lidded but not quite closed. The tension in his jaw still visible. As if even asleep, he was ready to react.

Then… his gaze flicked to you.

Neither of you said anything.

But you saw it, just for a second, maybe a fracture of it. A softness around the edge of that sharp stare. Not weakness. Not kindness.

Just… the faintest shadow of recognition.

You looked away first.

But his voice followed you into the dark.

“You shouldn’t trust me.”

“I don’t,” you whispered.

But the heat radiating between you? The silence that spoke louder than anything he’d said?

You weren’t sure who you were lying to anymore.

You woke to warmth.

Not comfort, nothing in that cot was soft enough for that, but warmth. A solid line of it along your back, steady and slow-breathing. You didn’t need to look to know who it was. A little shiver down your spine.

Crosshair hadn’t moved much in the night. But at some point, you’d shifted. Or he had. Either way, your shoulders were touching. Your thigh was against his. And his arm, long, lean, heavy, rested just close enough for you to sense its presence.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Just listened.

He was awake.

You could tell by his breathing. Controlled, deliberate. He knew exactly where you were. And he was letting it happen.

You turned your head slightly. “Is this the part where I start trusting you?”

A beat of silence.

Then, low: “No.”

You huffed, sitting up. The cot creaked. The chill rushed back in to remind you where you were. The tower walls hadn’t gotten any thicker overnight.

He sat up too, slower, expression unreadable.

But you didn’t miss the flicker of something in his gaze as you moved past him. Something sharp. Quick. Almost possessive.

You were halfway through biting into a ration bar when the sensors on his wristband chirped.

He stood instantly, all calm gone.

“What is it?” you asked, already on your feet.

“Movement,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the readout. “Outside. Three signatures. Too coordinated for scavengers.”

Your stomach twisted. “Bounty hunters?”

“Could be.” His voice dropped into that cold, professional rhythm. “Could be worse.”

And then the lights cut.

The tower went dark.

A split second later: the first blast hit the wall.

You hit the floor by instinct. The door blew inward, scattering dust and debris. A shadow stepped through, tall, armored, with a weapon you didn’t recognize but immediately didn’t like.

“Stay down,” Crosshair snapped, already moving.

He was fast. Unfairly fast. The rifle was in his hands before you even realized he’d grabbed it. He fired once, clean, sharp, and precise. One of the intruders dropped with a scream. Everything was happening way too fast around you.

Another charged in. You raised your blaster, fired blindly, and missed. They didn’t. A bolt skimmed your arm and sent you spinning back into a crate.

Pain bloomed hot and sudden.

You bit down hard and tried to get up. Failed.

A heavy hand yanked you behind cover, not careful, but with vigor “You’re bleeding.”

“No shit,” you hissed.

He didn’t even flinch. “Keep pressure on it.”

“I was, until I got shot.”

Another shot rang out, his. Another scream. Two down. One left.

“You armed?” he asked.

You held up your Blaster, your hand a little shaky. “Barely.”

He looked at you, then took a knee in front of you, calm under fire.

“Look. You don’t shoot unless I say. You breathe when I breathe. You move when I move.”

You blinked. “That’s comforting.”

His hand closed around yours, steadying your grip on the blaster. His fingers were cold but strong, guiding yours into place.

“Point. Don’t hesitate.”

You nodded, heart hammering.

He peeked around the corner, then moved.

You followed, too fast, too clumsy. But adrenaline carried you. The last hunter was trying to circle, but Crosshair was already on him. A brutal move, shoulder to the gut, elbow to the throat. The fight ended with the bounty hunter twitching on the floor.

You stood frozen, arm still bleeding, blaster limp in your grip.

Crosshair turned to you, breathing hard, expression unreadable.

“You’re lucky they were amateurs,” he said, voice low.

You glared. “Thanks for the confidence boost.”

But you were shaking, and he saw it.

He stepped forward. Not close. But closer. And for the first time, something in his face shifted, less like a soldier, more like someone who saw you bleeding and didn’t like it.

“Sit down,” he ordered, softer than before. “Let me look.”

You sat, muttering under your breath. “This trip’s really going great.”

He crouched beside you, unwrapping a field kit. Not reacting to your sarcasm. He worked silently, cleaning the wound. The graze was ugly but shallow.

Then his hand brushed your skin, light, deliberate.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t mean to look up. But you did. And his face was right there, eyes fixed on your arm, jaw tight. That tattoo caught the light again, his target, his warning.

But he wasn’t looking at you like a target.

He was looking at you like a question he hadn’t figured out how to answer.

And you hated how much you wanted him to try.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@thecoffeelorian

[anonmousegosqueak]

Boo! Did I scare you? I'm back to being alive, and not high off of pain and ickyness meds. So, here's a prompt! Roach and Gaz centric!

It's time for their bi-monthly leave (forced by Laswell), and Kyle and Roach have decided to take it together (pre-relationship). They spend it at Roach's flat, a one bedroom, fairly small place. Roach is fully prepared to grab the foldable cot from his closet and let Kyle have the bed, but Kyle brings up a good point.

"We've slept in smaller places together, bug. At least this time, it'll be in a comfortable bed, right?"

Cue the awkward "sleeping on opposite sides only to wake up cuddling" thing in the morning. They go about their day without mentioning it, and it happens every single night. Until eventually, Kyle says "fuck it" and just pulls Roach into cuddling the fifth night of their leave.

Could potentially lead to nsfw, could just be wholesome cuddle-bug Roach/Gaz. But I love the idea of the team mandated leave (Kate deals with the paperwork and makes them all rest) during the few months before their relationships started.

Johnny takes Simon up to Edinburgh, Price goes to stay with Kate and her wife (wine buddies). But I think Roach and Gaz are just so... adorable.

Like, cuddle-bug Roach and pretty boy Gaz that are awkward around each other, not really wanting to ruin their friendship (and also not wanting to acknowledge the whole "wanting to date their teammates" bit)

-🦴

AGHHHH!! AM SCARED.

Hi Boner! I'm glad you're better! I missed you! I sacrificed my first born for your health!

My first thought? Bi-monthly or BI(sexual)-monthly? ;D

No but seriously- Roach is a *cuddler*. He's small, naturally runs a bit cold, and small. He wants nothing more than to be a blanket. It's pretty normal to wake up with a little guy making sounds in your ear, comes with the job am I right?

Problem is, the homoerotic tension is tension-y.

I think the morning after (NOT LIKE THAT-) is so awkward.

"Seriously bug, it's alright." ← says Gaz despite also being horribly embarrassed because he knows he gave Roach a little kiss on the head.

Okay time for the morning after, exactly like that (aka nsfw)

I think the big "fuck it" moment is when they're already waking up. It's been a few days, lots of words left in the air, ect. Kyle is only half awake, more focused on his morning wood than the fact he's literally got Gary's thighs in-between his legs. He's not thinking about *what* he's humping, just that it feels good.

Gary, on the other hand is redder than a tomato, not 100% sure on what to do. I mean, hot guy that he has a crush on is currently asleep and rubbing on him! What is he supposed to do?

So instead he simply angles his leg just a little bit.

Poor Kyle's moan is enough for Gary's heart to stop beating for a moment or five. He swears he's never heard a more perfect sound in his whole life. And pair that with Kyle's expression? A mix of pleasure and sleep? Gary might have cum just from that (don't make fun of him, he hadn't had time for a good wank in months).

That was the day he learned he had a slight somnophilia kink :D (all consensual and such, dw.)

Kyle's own hips stutter a bit, a soft moan coming from him, and then he's back to sleeping. Literally snoring slightly. Gary is literally staring at the ceiling having an existential crisis and Kyle looks like he's having the best sleep of his life.

By the time Kyle actually wakes up, he's met with 1) a gross feeling in his boxers, 2) Gary's arm wrapped around him, and 3) a panicked bugboy staring at him.

Needless to say, they had a proper talk over breakfast.

And now they boyfriends who smooch and always cuddle~

[theadventurek9]

-----+ Before

-----+ After

2 Large Rufflands

1 Intermediate Ruffland

1 - 36" wire crate

1 Play Pen

2 Clip and Go Jumps

6 PVC Jumps

12 Weave Poles

Treat n Train

Dog Cot

Foldable chair

Water Jug

Many other dog supplies

My car makes me so happy right now. I now have three dogs for hiking so I needed to upgrade my transport situation in the van. Now I can get all of the dogs in and out from one door. Easily access all my gear and not feel so cluttered all the time.

[sivakumarrrr]

Will a Folding Bed Fit in Your Space? A Measurement Guide for Indian Homes

Folding beds, also known as wall beds or Murphy beds, are an excellent solution for maximizing space in Indian homes, especially in cities where apartments are often compact. But before you invest in a folding bed, you need to determine whether it will fit comfortably in your space. In this guide, we’ll walk you through the essential measurements, tips, and considerations to ensure your folding bed fits seamlessly into your home.

1. Start by Measuring Your Available Wall Space

The first step in deciding if a folding bed will work in your room is to measure the wall where you plan to install it. Most folding beds require a certain width and height to accommodate the bed frame and mattress when folded up.

Width: Measure the width of the wall space to ensure its wide enough for the bed’s frame when it’s both folded and extended. Generally, folding beds come in single, double, and queen sizes, with widths ranging from 3 to 5 feet for single beds and 5 to 6 feet for doubles. Make sure to leave some extra room on each side for easy movement.

Height: For vertical wall beds, ensure you have enough height clearance, especially if you live in an older home with lower ceilings. Standard folding beds can range from 6 to 7 feet when folded upright, so ensure your ceiling is high enough.

Horizontal Space: For horizontal folding beds, which are often preferred for rooms with lower ceilings, measure the horizontal wall space instead. These beds will extend outwards, so make sure your room’s layout can accommodate the extra length.

2. Account for the Bed’s Extended Length

Next, think about the bed when it’s unfolded. This extended length is essential, as you’ll need to make sure there’s enough clearance for the bed to fully open without bumping into other furniture.

Clearance in Front: When a folding bed is unfolded, it typically takes up the same space as a regular bed. A single bed requires around 6 to 7 feet of clearance from the wall, while a double or queen will need about 7 to 8 feet. Make sure you measure this distance carefully, especially if you have a small room.

Room Layout: Consider how the bed’s position affects the rest of your room. Will it block windows or doors when opened? Is there enough space for walking around or accessing other furniture, like wardrobes or tables? In small Indian bedrooms, this layout consideration is crucial for avoiding a cramped look.

3. Consider Storage and Multi-Functionality

Many folding beds now come with extra storage features, like shelves, cabinets, or even fold-out desks. These are great for maximizing space in small rooms, but they also add to the overall dimensions.

Shelving Width and Height: If you’re opting for a folding bed with attached storage, add the width and height of these features to your measurements. Make sure there’s adequate room to open cabinets or use the desk without obstruction.

Clearance for Other Furniture: Think about how close other pieces of furniture are to the bed. For instance, ensure that your wardrobe doors can open fully without hitting the folded-up bed.

4. Make Sure You Have a Sturdy Wall for Installation

A folding bed needs a strong wall for mounting, as it has to support the weight of both the bed and the person using it. For Indian homes, brick or concrete walls are ideal for this purpose, as they can provide the stability needed. Avoid installing on drywall or thinner partitions unless additional support is added.

Wall Thickness: Check the thickness and quality of your wall. Some interior walls in Indian apartments may not be strong enough to support a folding bed, especially if it includes storage features. Consult a professional if you’re unsure.

Safety Clearance: For added safety, make sure the bed’s locking mechanism works properly, and consider anti-tip hardware if you have children in the house. A properly installed bed will stay secure and stable.

5. Don’t Forget to Check the Bed’s Folded Depth

Finally, consider how much the folded bed will protrude from the wall. Standard folding beds are about 1 to 1.5 feet deep when folded. Make sure this depth won’t obstruct walking paths or interfere with other furniture, especially in narrow rooms.

Conclusion:

Installing a folding bed can greatly enhance the functionality and style of your home, but accurate measurements are essential for a good fit. By carefully measuring wall space, clearance, and other features, you’ll ensure the bed fits seamlessly and enhances your room’s layout. With a little planning, you’ll be able to enjoy the convenience and space-saving benefits of a folding bed, perfectly suited to your Indian home.

[outdoorovernights]

Foldable High/Low 2 Modes Camping Cot Review

Ever found yourself tossing and turning on a camping trip, wondering why you didn’t just invest in a proper camping cot? If you’ve been waking up with a sore back, leaves in your hair, and a newfound disdain for Mother Nature, this review might just be the answer to your problems. Introducing the “Foldable High/Low 2 Modes Camping Cot, with Extend Legs, Storage Bag, Ultralight & Durable…

[urlocalmultigroupfan]

fallout (pt. 6)

pairing: bang chan x female reader

summary: you work with skz in chernobyl. everything is fine....until it isn't.

tags/warnings: gruesome and horrific material, explosions, gory kind of? sorry if i missed anything.... still putting it together.

a/n: hi hi guys!! im so sorry for not posting..i haven't been feeling very motivated lately :( i hope yall dm

The night crept in slowly, the tent illuminated only by the dim glow of a few hanging lamps. You sat on a foldable chair, staring blankly at a clipboard in your hands. The data on it might as well have been a foreign language—numbers, levels, and technical jargon that didn’t feel real.

Chan stood across from you, leaning heavily on the table. His hand lingered near his temple again, fingers grazing over the patch of thinning hair. He hadn’t mentioned it since earlier, but you knew it was weighing on him.

“Chan,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look up. “What is it?”

“You need to rest.”

His laugh was humorless. “You think I can rest right now? With everything falling apart?”

You rose from your chair, placing the clipboard down. “You won’t be able to fix anything if you push yourself past your limit.”

He straightened, meeting your gaze with a flicker of defiance. “What’s the alternative? Sit back and hope everything magically resolves itself? People are counting on us.”

“And what happens when they don’t have you to count on anymore?” you snapped. The words were sharper than you intended, and you instantly regretted them.

Chan’s expression softened just enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath. “I’m fine,” he muttered, but it sounded more like a plea than a statement.

Before you could respond, Hyunjin stormed into the tent, his face pale and his eyes wild. “You need to come now,” he said breathlessly.

“What’s wrong?” Felix asked, appearing behind him.

“It’s Minho,” Hyunjin said, his voice tight. “He’s—just come.”

The medical tent was eerily quiet when you arrived, save for the steady beeping of monitors. Minho lay motionless on the cot, his skin alarmingly pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“He’s stable for now,” one of the medics explained, but the look on her face didn’t inspire confidence.

Chan hovered at the edge of the cot, his hand resting on the rail. “Stable isn’t good enough,” he said quietly.

“We’re doing everything we can,” the medic assured him before stepping away.

Minho stirred faintly, his eyes fluttering open. He looked at you, then Chan, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite his condition. “You guys... look terrible.”

Chan huffed out a laugh, but it sounded more like a sigh. “Speak for yourself.”

“Don’t... let this break you,” Minho murmured, his voice barely audible.

Chan’s grip on the rail tightened, his knuckles white. “We won’t.”

You stepped closer, placing a hand on Chan’s arm. The weight of everything felt unbearable, but Minho’s words rang in your ears. Don’t let this break you.

Back in the command tent, the atmosphere was heavier than ever. Hyunjin and Felix were locked in a heated discussion over the latest reports, while you and Chan sat silently at the table.

Felix finally turned to you both, his expression grim. “We need to act now. If we don’t contain the problem, it’s going to spiral out of control.”

Chan nodded, his resolve hardening. “Then we move fast. No more delays, no more waiting for answers. We take control.”

The others nodded in agreement, but as you glanced at Chan, the patch of thinning hair caught your eye again. He was pushing himself too hard, and it was starting to show.

But there was no time to stop. Not now.

The command tent buzzed with urgency as everyone moved with purpose, each person playing their part in the delicate dance of containment. You felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on you, but there was no room for doubt or hesitation—not now.

Chan stood beside you, his usual composure wavering. He was directing the placement of new barriers, his voice steady despite the exhaustion etched into his features. But you couldn't ignore the subtle signs of his deteriorating condition—the thinning hair, the way his hands trembled slightly when he handled the equipment.

“Everything’s holding for now,” Felix reported, his eyes scanning the monitors intently. “But we need to reinforce Sector B immediately. The readings there are spiking.”

“Understood,” Chan replied, moving to relay the orders. You watched him closely, noticing the pale circles under his eyes and the way his breaths came a bit too shallow.

As the hours dragged on, you began to feel an unusual weariness settle over you. At first, it was just a lingering fatigue, but now your vision felt slightly blurred, and a persistent headache throbbed behind your temples. You reached up, touching your own hairline, and froze. A few strands had already begun to fall out, landing softly on your sleeve.

“Y/N, are you okay?” Chan’s voice broke through your thoughts. He was standing beside you, his hand lightly resting on your shoulder.

You tried to smile, though your strength felt waning. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

He studied you for a moment, his eyes filled with concern. “You sure? You look like you’re not feeling well.”

Before you could respond, Hyunjin rushed in, his face flushed with urgency. “We’ve got a breach in Sector C. Radiation levels are rising rapidly.”

Chan didn’t hesitate. “Let’s move.” He grabbed your arm gently but firmly. “Stay close.”

As you followed him through the labyrinth of corridors, your vision continued to dim, and dizziness threatened to overwhelm you. Every step felt heavier than the last, but Chan’s presence was a anchor, keeping you grounded amidst the chaos.

When you reached Sector C, the scene was tense. Workers were scrambling to set up additional shields, their movements frantic. Chan took command effortlessly, barking out instructions while you struggled to keep up, your body betraying you with each passing minute.

“Y/N, assist Felix with the reinforcement here,” Chan directed, his voice unwavering despite the strain. You nodded, pushing through the haze to help secure the barriers. Your hands shook as you worked, the reality of your situation sinking in.

As the final panel clicked into place, a sudden surge of radiation washed over you, intensifying your symptoms. You staggered, clutching Chan’s arm for support. He didn’t hesitate, guiding you to a nearby bench and helping you sit down.

“Take deep breaths,” he instructed, his own face pale but determined. “We need to stay focused.”

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, but the room seemed to spin around you. The weight of what was happening pressed down on both of you, the line between personal struggle and collective mission blurring.

“Chan...” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “What if we can’t hold them off?”

He turned to face you, his eyes reflecting a mix of fear and resolve. “We have to believe we can. For ourselves, for everyone counting on us.”

In that moment, the bond between you felt unbreakable, even as both of you faced the invisible threat that was slowly taking its toll. The containment efforts were relentless, but so was your determination to survive together.

[novastaar]

One Last Chance to Belong

Chapter 4

Just the thought made her head swim with questions and sharp pain.

She could feel her eyelids grow heavy again, but she didn't dare close them. If she fell back to sleep, there was no guarantee she was waking back up. Besides, who knew what this odd penguin would do to her.

Speaking of, she could hear him coming back, watching the door suspiciously as he waddled in.

He came up to the edge of Trixie's cot, holding a tray of what looked like… biscuits. It looked fine… and certainly didn't smell dangerous. It smelled great, actually

Trixie's body reacted before her mind did, snatching up a handful of the fish-shaped biscuits and cramming them into her mouth.

The penguin jumped a little at the sudden motion, making her smile slightly. Good. He should be afraid of her.

It was a challenge to eat. Her throat was dry and felt like it was lined with cactus spines. Still, she scarfed down the food as if she'd never eaten before.

“you eat, drink, and rest for now” the penguin instructed gently “I'll be back later to do a full check-up on you”

He left a glass of water behind on the tray, which was apparently a mini foldable table, before walking out once again.

Well… that was odd. Shouldn't a medic stay with their patient a little longer after they wake up like that…?

But Trixie, of course, knew nothing about proper medication… only the basic first aid she'd learned and picked up on over the years. Useful, but not quite professional.

With nothing else to really do, Trixie eyed the glass of water.

Like the food, it seemed to just be… plain old water. Not spiked or poisoned or anything, as far as she could tell, anyway.

She didn't often drink straight water. As a desert creature, she usually got all the moisture she needed from food and morning dew.

But those biscuits had been awfully dry… and how long had it been since she'd had a proper meal, anyway? The best she'd gotten out at sea were a couple of fish. And after her energy had deplenished, those fish had been reduced to anything dumb enough to wander up and get caught in her paws.

Can foxes even eat fish?

Well, it wouldn't have been the worst thing she'd had to stomach before, would it?

Hesitantly, Trixie reached out a trembling paw, using her small amount of replenished energy to pick it up and raise it to her lips.

The relief was almost immediate, the two gulps of water she took soothing the dryness of her throat. The discomfort wasn't entirely relieved, but it was close enough.

Trixie rolled over onto her back with a sigh, her muscles aching in protest, somehow still refusing to shake the blisteringly scorching cold.

Her thoughts drifted off back to the Sahara, and with a full stomach and so little energy, she slowly allowed sleep to consume her mind.

•●•

So... uh... yeah, I've definitely missed a few weeks. I honestly don't even have an excuse. Life just be like that sometimes.

I didn't get as much writing done as I'd hoped to over break, and I only have half of the next chapter finished, so updates may slow down.

I'm sorry you guys have to deal with my shitty schedule and motivation-

[baby-xemnas]

is there like any name that you’d like us to refer to you as? rn i just always say xemma but i wanted to ask :P

it's kot (read as cot as in a foldable thing you lie on)

please dont say xemma

[gotta-pet-em-all]

pelipper mail!

a fairly comfortable foldable cot, complete with freshly laundered blanket and pillow(s) in the scent and quantity of your preference!

it's very polite of you to give your alternate companions some space, but that shouldn't have to come at the expense of your bodily comfort! couches can be rough. :<

a-

um

wow that's a lot of pillows. thank you

thnk you I will collapse onto the cot and recover from the shock of. great mother of all pelipper delivering that

dear arceus. that thing..... i only saw flashes of it through the doorway. but it might haunt my dreams.